Quod Erat Demonstrandum
by 4O4
Summary: "Yer a wizard, Harry!" "I'm a what?" "A wizard, Harry. Yer a wizard." "Like, the stick-waving, pointy hat, star-spangled robes kind?" In which Harry is very much of the opinion that wizards in general, and british wizards in particular, are a bunch of insane asylum escapees. Exploitable insane asylum escapees, to be exact.
1. Chapter 1: QED

Author's Note:

This is my first fic, so be gentle while ripping it apart, thanks.

Inspired by the sheer endless amount of neutral!Harry/dark!Harry/smart!Harry/generally-using-his-brain!Harry fics out there.  
In the end, this is just my little thought experiment on how it could have been, if Harry was just a little more skeptical and a little less trusting.

There might be a bit of Dumbledore/Weasley bashing up in here, but I'll attempt to keep it reasonable.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter Series or any of its characters. If I did, Harry would have been considerably less stupid. This is a non-profit work of fiction.

Chapter 1: Q.E.D.

"Yer a wizard, Harry!"

"I'm a _what_?"  
"A wizard, Harry. Yer a wizard."

"Like, the stick-waving, pointy hat, star-spangled robes kind?" A young voice asked incredulously, as green eyes narrowed suspiciously at the mountain of a man.

"I s'pose, though the stars are optional. Most wizards nowadays go with more modern robe patterns," the giant man in front of Harry replied, a confused edge to his voice. This was not the reaction he had expected when the Great Albus Dumbledore - Headmaster of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - had sent him out to collect little Harry for school shopping and to deliver his acceptance letter personally. Well, neither had he expected to fly half across England in an effort to find Harry on a dreary little island on the coast of bumblefuck nowhere. That, he could have chalked up to general muggle-weirdness.

Harry Potter's thoughts, on the other hand, had come to a screeching halt when the huge man - who had introduced himself as Hagrid - had launched into an explanation on the finer points of wizard attire. This man was evidently either completely and utterly stark raving mad, or had suffered severe intracranial trauma. Seeing as the guy didn't seem to have any sort of head wound (although with the mass of hair on his head it was really not all that easy to be sure), Harry settled on the first option. This was clearly an insane person. An immensely huge and scary-looking insane person. His first instinct at this realization was to get as far away as possible from this potentially dangerous individual. He might only be an eleven-year-old boy, but he certainly wasn't a stupid child. He had listened very carefully when his grade school teacher had explained to the class how to behave around strange adults.

Unfortunately, seeing as he was currently stuck on an island in the middle of the ocean, his escape options were severely limited. No thanks to his _lovely_ uncle Vernon, who was not far behind in the questionably-sane-department in his personal opinion. After all, it had only taken a few letters delivered by owls for the man to pile the entire family into a car and go on a mad quest all across England to outrun _mail_. Without even _packing anything!_ Granted, the sheer amount of letters had been strange and maybe even a tad concerning, but Harry felt that this whole thing could have been avoided had uncle Vernon just let Harry read the damn letter. It had been addressed to him, after all.

Apropos letter.

Harry was ripped out of his contemplation by a meaty hand waving one of the aforementioned letters in front of his face, while Hagrid prattled on about pigs with warts and double doors or something. Seeing as escape seemed impossible for now, Harry settled on accepting the letter and humoring the insane person.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL _of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

 _(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

 _Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

The letter was penned on expensive looking parchment and with the intricate crest adorning the top of the sheet, it was quite official-looking. So Harry decided to give this whole situation the benefit of the doubt. After all, he didn't really have any other options, seeing as this Hagrid person had single-handedly bent the barrel of uncle Vernon's gun as if it were putty... and he didn't peg the very rough-looking man in front of him as the type who could produce something quite as professional and elegant as this letter. So either there was a whole cult of crazy people after him (which seemed unlikely, since he was just Harry, a nobody), or this man was _somehow_ speaking the truth. Not one to trust easily - a lesson drilled into him quite effectively by his _lovely_ relatives - Harry put on his best innocently trusting face, and demanded proof. It wouldn't do to escalate a potentially dangerous situation - he was very attached to staying alive, after all.

"So, Hagrid, was it? Can you maybe show me some magic, then?" Harry asked, blinking his extra wide green doe eyes, complete with a blush and a shy smile. He knew from experience that this particular expression worked really well on pretty much any adult who wasn't a Dursley. Hagrid seemed to be no exception, if the way his face lit up like a christmas tree was any indication.

"I'm not s'posed ta do any magic, but maybe jus' somethin' small. Eh, Harry?" He boomed happily while waving around his peculiar pink umbrella. Harry wondered briefly what kind of moron would send a representative of a magic school who wasn't even allowed to do any magic to introduce a potential student to the concept, but was soon distracted from his musings by the positively delightful and terrified shrieks of his cousin Dudley, who now sported a neat pig's tail and ears that complemented his already astounding resemblance to the animal. The word 'furry' came to mind.

Well, that certainly shattered any and all of Harry's perceptions of reality. He was torn between vindictive pleasure at his cousin's unfortunate situation and going into shock because, well, _magic!_ After a while of open-mouthed gaping, he settled on a combination of the two and Hagrid was treated to the sight (and aural experience) of a madly cackling Harry.

It took Harry a while to get his bearings and afterwards he smiled up at Hagrid brightly and much more genuinely than before. A person who did something like that to his whale of a cousin was definitely preferable company to the Dursley's in his opinion. Actually, now that he thought about it, _anyone_ would be better company than those horrid creatures. This Hagrid started to look a lot like a feasible ticket out of the hell that was living with his relatives. And he'd do pretty much anything to get away from his living arrangement and the ... _creative_...interpretation of 'care' his relatives employed. Even follow a madman. Hagrid didn't seem like he wanted to hurt Harry, which was not something that could be said about his uncle, judging by the quite alarming shade of puce his face was turning.

"So, what happens now?" Harry asked tentatively. Hagrid waved his hands animatedly (almost hitting aunt Petunia in the face several times) while explaining how they would immediately fly (fly!) over to a place called 'Diagon Alley' and spend the night in 'The Leaky Cauldron' (An inn, apparently), in order to get Harry's school shopping done first thing in the morning. Apparently even Hagrid, who didn't seem like the sharpest tool in the shed, had taken note of the general disdain for their nephew and overall horrible personality of the Dursley's. He didn't seem too keen on spending longer than necessary in their presence - which might have something to do with the fact that he had just moments ago (illegally, apparently) used magic on Dudley in a less than friendly fashion, Harry assumed. The positively delightful color changes his uncle's face was currently running through probably didn't do much to assure Hagrid of their safety, either. So off they went, out of the empty doorframe of the dangerously creaking shack and towards a motorcycle, leaving a bunch of speechless whales and a fainted horse in their wake.

Harry was quite pleased at this sudden change in direction his life was taking. Although he grew quite nervous at the prospect of a flying motorcycle without seatbelts. Wizards didn't seem too concerned with general safety and this whole not-dying-business, as it seemed, and he had to wonder if this quite frankly alarming lack of common sense might just be a wide-spread thing in the wizarding population. At least 'death by flying motorcycle' would be a much more dramatic way to go than 'beaten and/or starved to death by an angry relative' could ever be.

He just hoped he didn't have to see the Dursley's ever again. If he had to come back to them after this stunt he (or rather Hagrid) just pulled, the nuclear fallout of his uncle's rage might just level the entirety of England.

"Here's to hoping," he mumbled under his breath, before clinging to Hagrid's bedsheet of a coat for dear life as the motorcycle zoomed into the night sky at breakneck speed.


	2. Chapter 2: A Brave New World

_Author's Note:_

 _Whew. Chapter two is here, but don't get used to this upload speed._

 _I don't have a beta reader so instead I shoved this chapter through 4 different spelling- and grammar checkers. Hopefully that will ahve eliminated most of my errors.  
Criticism is heavily invited; i want to imrove after all.  
I was planning to handle the entire Diagon Alley visit in this chapter, but had to reconsider and split it into two chapters, since the length of it all was getting a little out of hand. _

_Thanks for reading and have fun!_

 **Chapter 2: A Brave New World**

Harry was reconsidering any and all of his life choices at the present moment.

Surprisingly, both Hagrid and he had survived the bumpy ride on the flying motorcycle with only minor mental trauma for Harry, who had decided that while flying was most definitely awesome, being far away from the ground without any safety measures certainly was _not_.

After arriving in front of the Leaky Cauldron at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night, Harry had been very surprised to see the inn still up and open. The barman, Tom, had upon Hagrid's insistence led them to two adjacent rooms post haste and both Hagrid and Harry had promptly collapsed on their respective beds without further ado.

The reason Harry was now seriously reconsidering his earlier choice of following the giant man to an unknown location was, that after they both woke up and descended into the pub area of the inn, it had taken merely a second for the barman to spot him and exclaim "My word! Is that _Harry Potter!?_ " To which the entire room full of strangely dressed individuals (pointed hats, _seriously!?_ ) immediately ceased any and all conversation in favor of blatantly (and quite rudely) staring at said boy. The expectant silence was almost tangible in the air, like a beast getting ready to pounce at a moment's notice and Harry grew uncomfortable and very flustered at record speed.

It was only his quick thinking and smart mouth that diffused the situation before it could get out of control.

"No, Sir. My name is Sylvester Stallone, pleased to meet you," Harry promptly answered the barman.

"But, you have the scar," was Toms uncertain reply, to which Harry reacted by blushing slightly and choking out "Oh, this old thing? I fell out of a window as a baby."  
Surprisingly, this seemed to have appeased Tom, who then proceeded to guide both Harry and Hagrid, who had looked on in blatant confusion but decided against getting involved, to a small table in a private room, away from prying eyes.

While they waited for breakfast to be served, Harry turned his attention towards Hagrid.

"So, Hagrid, everyone seems to know my name for some reason. Care to elaborate on that?" Harry asked in his best pleasant tone. Honestly, at this point he dreaded the man's answer. You never knew what crazy shit these people would come up with next. He wouldn't even be surprised if Hagrid were to tell him that Harry was famous or something because he had been a well known hero in a past life, kind of like the Avatar or something equally horrible. Considering these people thought that _robes_ of all things made for a good fashion statement and (if you were to believe the second page of his Hogwarts letter) thought that _toads_ made perfectly reasonable pets, anything was possible. Hagrid's reply brought him away from the tangent his thoughts had taken to straying on, as he replied "Harry, don't ye know?"

Harry most certainly did _not_ know and couldn't for the life of him say why Hagrid would even entertain the idea he knew anything at all about this secret society of wizards and witches. The man had to come get him from his relatives and convince him that magic was real by way of demonstration, for christ's sake! For however nice Hagrid seemed to be, Harry was genuinely concerned for this poor man's mental facilities.

Hagrid had been watching young Harry's face descend into a scowl the likes of which even a Malfoy would be jealous of and despite himself, he felt a few beads of sweat rolling down his thick neck. Really, Harry was so completely not-James and distinctly un-Lily, that it was quite disconcerting to see this un-Potter-like personality squished into a body that basically looked like someone shoved both Lily and James into one of those nifty mixing thingys muggles used and pressed the button that made the blades inside the thingy go 'swoosh', creating a Lily-James smoothie named Harry.

He wasn't sure what to make of it. Ultimately he settled on just...hoping for the best.

This time, Hagrid was ripped out of his musings by Harry's reply.

"No, Hagrid," the child started off quite exasperatedly, "I do _not_ know, but I would really, _really_ appreciate a very extensive explanation right about now." How anyone could pack that much exasperation and disapproval into a single sentence was beyond Hagrid. However, the extent to which the Dursley's had kept Harry out of the loop made him positively livid and removed any doubts and feelings of guilt he'd been wrestling with since he had turned the pig-boy into a form that more closely resembled his character, yesterday.

So Hagrid launched into what would become an hour long crash course on recent wizarding history.

"Well, Harry, it all started with You-Know-Who," he began, just to be interrupted by Harry.

"Who?"

"You-Know-Who."

"No, I _don't_ know who."  
"Oh, ye, sorry, Harry. We call 'im You-Know-Who, since everyone's afraid of sayin' his name. Ye see, Harry, You-Know-Who was the darkest wizard of all times - "

"So, what's his actual name?"

"I'm not sure I should tell ye, Harry -"

At this point, Harry's scowl became even more impressive, and Hagrid very quickly reconsidered.

With a heaving sigh, he started off again.

"Vol- uh, Vo-Vol-Voldemort," he haltingly whispered the name as if he were letting Harry in on a national secret, "He was the darkest Wizard of all times…"

An hour later, Harry was not amused. He thought his Avatar - Theory sucked. But this? This was just _utterly ridiculous_. Apparently the entirety of wizarding society was either seriously mentally challenged or a bunch of lazy assholes. How could they genuinely believe that somehow a one year old _baby_ had defeated someone who was thought to be up there with the likes of _Merlin himself_ (who apparently actually existed, wow!) in terms of raw power and skill. Even the most deluded fool had to realize that there had to be more to the story, especially, considering that the only people who could possibly attest to the events were either presumed dead or had been a nappy soiling little shit at the time.

Someone had clearly been creatively employing their imagination and, from Hagrids explanations, Harry assumed it had to have been someone with a great deal of influence to have humans with a brain believing this senseless drivel.

The whole thing stank to the high heavens of ulterior motives and Harry had been unwittingly made into a political bargaining chip.

The murder of his parents was filed away for later consideration, as he really wasn't sure how he felt about the whole thing, yet. He never knew his parents, so it was a bit hard to feel as outraged at their murder as Hagrid seemed to be expecting of him. Of course he was sad that this Voldemort character had robbed him of the chance to grow up with potentially loving parents, but in his personal opinion, it never did anyone any good to dwell on the past if it wasn't for the express purpose of learning from mistakes. What's done is done and can't be undone, and all that. Additionally, he was of the firm believe that all actions had to have consequences and in times of war, choosing a side usually came with the risk of dying. He was pretty sure - or at least he hoped - that his parents must have known they were signing away their life by joining the war effort.

Honestly, all in all, he was rather pissed off at his parents. Who just goes around deciding that 'Hey, we're currently neck deep in war and carnage, you know what we should do? Have a baby. Oh and even better: When the child is born, let's just continue risking our lives instead of, oh, I dunno, getting the _fuck_ out of the country and ensuring our family actually stays alive. Nothing could _possibly_ go wrong.'

Another point of consideration in this whole mess was one Albus Too-Many-Goddamn-Names Dumbledore. Hagrid painted quite the vivid picture of the man as some sort of Holier-Than-Thou godlike being who was Never Ever Wrong and made only Good Decisions ever. Harry didn't buy it. His immediate dislike for the man was maybe spurred on a bit by the fact that he was, apparently, the reason Harry had been dumped at the Dursleys' doorstep, in the middle of the fucking night during _November._ Harry read about this stuff extensively and in his books, that was called both criminal negligence and child endangerment. Kind of like what the Dursley's did to him on a daily basis. He briefly considered whether his relatives would actually be the lesser of two evils in this situation but quickly decided that, no, if he were to go back now, they would probably delight in skinning him alive and salting the wounds. Better to take his chances and stay with the crazy people, where he at least had a chance of survival.

After an extensive and very tasty breakfast following Hagrid's history lesson, the man had announced that the both of them should probably be off to Gringotts - the wizarding bank. The only one. A bank with the monopoly on any and all bank stuff. Wizards really weren't the brightest bunch.

Harry had been a bit concerned about covering the expenses of his shopping, seeing as he was an orphan and the Dursley's would sooner hack off Dudley's hands than finance any of his _freakish abnormality._ His concerns were quickly alleviated by Hagrid's burst of laughter and subsequent explanation that his parents had in fact left him a substantial amount of money. Which brought up the point of why Harry had never so much as received a single bank statement in his life. To which Hagrid had told him, that Albus-Bloody-Dumbledore had apparently been handling any and all of his finances. Joy.

Needless to say, this did nothing to endear the esteemed headmaster to Harry.

Before they exited the inn, Harry had asked Hagrid to refer to him as Sylvester Stallone for the rest of their time here, in order to avoid harassment of his person by overexcited witches and wizards (but also because it was just really fucking funny to Harry, since wizards didn't seem to keep up with muggle celebrities). Hagrid had been a bit confused why Harry would want to avoid his fame, but had ultimately agreed to the request.

After Hagrid had opened a doorway through a brick wall behind the inn, Harry was gaping open-mouthed at Diagon Alley. He really wasn't sure why he was even surprised at this point, considering everything that had transpired so far.

The Alley was the epitome of medieval fairytale bullshit.

The buildings lining the uneven cobblestone road were definitely nowhere near structurally sound and balanced precariously on top of each other, seemingly held more or less upright by sheer power of will. It was loud, packed full of people with no concept of modern fashion and everything was annoyingly brightly coloured. People in _pointy hats_ were loudly discussing things like the steep prices of newt's eyes (whatever those were) and _racing brooms_ (oh god, no. Please, no more dangerous means of transportation) and the uses of dragon hide in fashion (they would be a step up from _animated robes_ , as far as Harry was concerned). The only thing missing to complete the picture would have been someone opening a window to empty a chamber pot upon the heads of unsuspecting passersby and maybe a few elves, fairies or dwarves prancing around irritatingly. Maybe a dragon or two circling in the skies, breathing fire occasionally, to make it extra unsafe. Harry could feel a migraine racing towards him at top speed. As someone who grew up in what pretty much amounted to solitary confinement, his senses were seriously struggling to process the immense amount of data assaulting him. He expected to go into shock any minute now.

Dividing his attention between distrustfully eyeing the buildings, half expecting them to collapse at any moment, and attempting to process the incredible amount of noise left him barely registering the thick and almost choking feeling of pure magic saturating every inch of the Alley. He struggled to keep up with Hagrid, whose legs were about as long as one entire Harry and who was therefore able to move substantially faster than poor Harry's tiny legs could carry him along. At least he cut a pathway through the mass of people like an icebreaker ship in the arctic ocean.

When they arrived at Gringotts, Harry was just about ready to commit murder. All along the way, the cancer orb in the sky had burned down on him with a ferocious dedication, birds were chirping in a distinct disney-esque way, and people were whispering and pointing at him. All in all, it was the Leaky Cauldron all over again, just much, much worse.

At least his prominent scowl had deterred any of them from venturing closer to him than absolutely necessary.

He was ripped from his contemplations of whether strangling a bunch of birds for making noise could even be considered murder and whether the wizarding world had any laws concerning the killing of annoying feathered menaces, when they passed through the huge double door that led into Gringotts. They had to pass a few tiny men with very pointy teeth and even pointier weapons guarding the doors. Harry shuddered when they smiled quite menacingly at the both of them and made a note on his mental To-Do-List to ask the tiny men for lessons in looking terrifying while being barely tall enough to be allowed on most rides in an amusement park.

You never knew when unorthodox intimidation tactics might come in handy.

"Goblins. Nasty creatures," Hagrid whispered dutifully towards Harry, who looked up at the giant man incredulously. Was Hagrid not aware that even his whisper (which was more of a stage whisper, really) carried loud enough that it probably could be heard all across the enormous building? It didn't strike Harry as a particularly good idea to antagonize the people who apparently controlled the entire financial system of the wizarding world and he made another point on his List to remember to be very, very polite to these goblins.

When it was finally their turn to squirm under the disapproving glare of a goblin teller, Hagrid made even more of an effort to make Harry uncomfortable to be associated with the giant man. He quite rudely informed the teller that they would like to access Harry Potter's vaults and upon being asked for the key to said vaults, proceeded to empty an astounding amount of random things on the teller's desk until he finally produced a tiny golden key.

"Woha. Woha, woha, woha! Hold up! Time out," Harry all but snarled, "No offense, Hagrid, but why in the name of all that is holy do you have _my_ vault access key?" Hagrid at least had the decency to look a bit sheepish as he replied "Professor Dumbledore gave it to me for safekeeping."

Harry could not believe it. This meddling bastard had seriously given _Harry's_ vault key to this man who apparently kept everything he owned just carelessly shoved into the pockets of his coat? For _safekeeping!?_ Wow. He had no words for the amount of sheer fury this careless handling of his belongings incited in him.

"After this, _I'll_ be keeping that key," Harry announced in a voice so glacial, it could have probably summoned a snowstorm in the Sahara. For a moment, Hagrid looked as if he were on the verge of protesting, but ultimately seemed to decide that maybe he should keep his mouth shut on the issue upon seeing the positively filthy glare the eleven-year-old sent his way. A glare that promised retribution if he were to not comply.

After the Goblin had verified the authenticity of the key, Hagrid and Harry split up since Hagrid had (none too quietly) announced that he had to dip into another vault on 'Dumbledore's orders' to handle some 'top-secret Hogwarts business'.

They met up again in the main hall an half hour later; Hagrid looking rather green and with a small package wrapped in dirty old rags in his huge hand and Harry proudly carrying his brand new pouch that was permanently connected to the ridiculous amount of gold in his vault. He'd asked the goblin guiding him for a crash course in wizarding money, which prompted a delighted goblin to launch into an extensive lecture on the wizarding world's general financial concepts and Harry's inheritance in particular, with a short tangent on the Potter family's substantial involvement in both the wizarding and muggle world of business. Harry would be gaining access to even _more_ money once he turned seventeen. Apparently his parents had been filthy rich.

On that note, Harry took the time to quickly confer with one of the goblin tellers, asking for copies of all old bank statements since his birth and for any new ones to be sent directly his way. The teller had been quite outraged on Harry's behalf upon hearing that the esteemed headmaster had not thought it necessary to involve Harry in any sort of financial decisions. The goblin promised to compose a folder of all the old statements, as well as a bunch of important documents, for Harry to look through. As it was a huge amount of documents that had to be sorted through, Harry made an appointment to meet up with the Potter Family's personal financial advisor a few days later to get much needed advice and help in organizing his financial affairs.

All in all, he decided, he really liked goblins.

On their way out of Gringotts, Harry briefly wondered what could possibly be so important and secret about the lump of rags Hagrid was carrying, but quickly decided that he really didn't want to get tangled up in any sort of business that involved one barmy old headmaster of Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.


	3. Chapter 3: Copyright Conundrum

_**Author's Note:** Ha, I bet you thought this fic has been abandoned._  
 _You would be correct, however, like the flexible guy I am, I decided to pick it up again on a whim. I won't promise regular updates or any form of contingency when it comes to style and direction for this story. Nothing here is beta'd, but every joke is checked for quality. All the good ones have been successfully eliminated._

 _I hope you'll enjoy it anyways - so without further ado, here's chapter three. Enjoy._

 **Chapter 3: Copyright Conundrum**

Harry Potter was questioning his own sanity. Not that he was all that surprised, it was quickly becoming a trend and one he did not like. Much in the same way, he didn't like 'Malfoy, Draco Malfoy - you've heard of my father, of course' prattling at him like no tomorrow.

Being confined to a footstool with no way to escape the verbal assault dished out by the blonde, pointy person on the stool next to him, did not do much for his overall mood. The store assistant shoving pins and needles every which way and more often than not uncomfortably close to...certain regions wasn't all that delightful either.

He'd entered _Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions_ moments earlier - only to be immediately assaulted by a portly and very much overly touchy-feely witch with surprisingly awful taste in garments. Those shades of purple and green did not go well together.

"Ah, Hogwarts, dear?" she had chirped while placing her arm around his bony shoulders.

Not awaiting a reply, she had all but dragged him into a backroom and deposited him right next to a boy who couldn't possibly look any more arrogant if he'd tried. Although the fancy robes and perfect posture of the blonde made Harry a little envious. It wasn't fair that he was short and underfed and generally looked more like a stray dog that may or may not have rabies, while the other boy looked like he was ready to be crowned king any minute now. Harry would have to change that eventually. His own wardrobe, not Malfoy's, of course. Maybe the blonde chatterbox could teach him a few tricks - if he ever shut up long enough for Harry to actually communicate back.

The second he had spotted Harry on the stool next to him, the guy had started to unload a sheer incomprehensible amount of verbal vomit all over Harry's poor ears, jumping from topic to topic and asking questions only to immediately continue regaling him with all sorts of believable and unbelievable tales.

Harry would have been thankful for the much needed information presented to him, if it hadn't been delivered so randomly and at almost the speed of light.

After another minute of this, Harry let out a yell, partly in hopes of shutting the other boy up and partly to vent some of his frustration.

"and then my father -" Malfoy, Draco Malfoy's jaw clicked shut in bewilderment.

Silence. Sweet, sweet silence.

"...did you just yell?" Aaaand, there it went. So much for that.

Harry took the opportunity to level the other boy with a deadpan stare. He was really good at those and also a bit proud of his extensive selection.

"What do you think, Malfoy, Draco Malfoy?" Harry asked, and almost immediately regretted his tone. He wanted to make friends, not enemies, on his first day in an entirely new world.

"Sorry, it's just...I've been dragged around for hours by now and I'm just not used to being around so many people and you talk really fast which makes it really hard to follow." Harry tried to salvage the situation as best as he could.

After a long, measuring stare, the blonde boy nodded, presumably accepting his apology.

"It's okay. I must extend my apologies as well; My behaviour has not been befitting of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy. I've been a little excited, since I have not been around such a bustling atmosphere in a long while, either." The change in vocabulary was dramatic and Harry did his very best to swallow his anxiety. Every time he'd used complicated words or fancy phrasing in the past, it had only gotten him a slap to the face and a tirade on the topic of what constitutes as proper speech when it concerns Worthless Little Freaks, such as himself.

Maybe now, that he was away from the Dursleys, he could get away with showing off his advanced vocabulary a little? Malfoy, Draco Malfoy didn't look very slapped and yelled at overall, so Harry surmised that the Dursleys' reaction to his own vocabulary hadn't be entirely ... _normal._ And wasn't that an ironic thought. The Dursleys, not normal in even one aspect of their lives? Inconceivable. He mentally snorted. He also decided to congratulate himself, for incorporating the word 'inconceivable' into his inner monologue successfully. It had been a recent addition to his vocabulary and he was quite proud of using it correctly.

It seemed that Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, was not very fond of silence, since he had returned to talking at Harry, though now at a much more sedated pace, thankfully. Hagrid really hadn't been of much help in terms of information beyond the bare basics, such as 'wizards exist, there's magic, you can do magic, some crazy guy murdered your parents and this totally-not-crazy, infallible and awesome old guy dumped you with human waste, you should definitely worship the ground he walks on,' which was not really all that helpful. Also paraphrased. So with all this information dumped on Harry, the blonde boy was practically a godsent, while also managing to be absurdly insufferable.

"Have you got your own broom?" The very same boy asked just at that moment.

Harry was sorely tempted to say 'yes' and then list the types of brooms in aunt Petunia's impressive - if slightly concerning - broom collection. He was well acquainted with those, since they had been his partners for multiple sweeping-related chores. It was a close call, but Harry managed to reign in his snarky attitude in favour of keeping the other boy in an amicable mood for easier information gathering.

"No," Harry replied instead, the traumatizing experience involving a certain flying motorcycle and a notable lack of seatbelts still fresh in his mind, "they don't seem very safe. Can't imagine why anyone would willingly mount one of those flying death traps."

At this, Malfoy, Draco Malfoy managed to look disappointed, calculating and suspicious all at once and Harry felt the urge to slam his head into the next best solid object. _Of course_ this would be a bad thing to say to someone who'd made it perfectly clear that he was a bit too excited about brooms in general and flying in particular. (He'd gathered that much from the earlier tirade.)  
Or maybe he had severely misunderstood what brooms were used for in the magical community? Now, _that_ would be embarrassing. Harry _really_ hoped that wasn't the case.

"So am I right to assume you don't have a favourite Quidditch team, either? Play Quidditch at all?" The blonde asked.

Qu-what now? Harry hoped he didn't look as confused as he was.

"Don't tell me you don't even know what Quidditch is…?" He seemed quite incredulous.

Apparently Harry had looked _exactly_ as confused as he was. God damn it. He really had to work on his control over his own expressions. It wouldn't do to broadcast his every thought and emotion via his traitorous face, after all.

"Uhh…" was Harry's eloquent response.

"You're not a mudblood, are you?" The blonde's facial expression turned from incredulous to disdainful so fast, it gave Harry whiplash.

"A what now?" Wow, he was really nailing it. What a reply.

"A mudblood. You know, are both your parents muggles?"

"They're both dead, is what they are," Harry snarked and immediately regretted it, "but they were both magical, as far as I know," he amended hurriedly, his tone considerably more polite now.

Not making enemies was his goal, he reminded himself. Ideally friends, though he really couldn't see that on the horizon with Draco 'Judgemental Chatterbox Supreme' Malfoy.

Malfoy, Draco Malfoy seemed pleased at that. Harry got the hint. Apparently wizards based their bigotry on ancestry instead of skin color. He wasn't too excited about the prospect, but he supposed since wizards were humans, just like muggles were, bigotry was to be expected. People were awful, cruel creatures, after all. That much he was very intimately aware of. Case in point: The Dursleys.

"I'm sorry I brought it up. What's your name, by the way?" Malfoy, Draco Malfoy continued on.

"Stallone, Sylvester Stallone," Harry replied, both because he wasn't keen on having Malfoy potentially drool all over him if he let slip that he was _The_ Harry Potter, boy-who-lived, vanquisher-of-the-dark-lord, and whatever else stupid and needlessly hyphenated titles witches and wizards came up with for him in their spare time. And because it was a magnificent joke and utterly hilarious, at least to Harry.

It was Harry's own private inside joke.

...Wait, weren't those supposed to be shared between friends?

Whatever. This was _his_ joke and it was funny enough without anyone else privy to it.

Malfoy's reply, however, threw Harry for a loop.

"Stallone? Of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Stallone? You're american?"

Say, _whaaaat!?_

"Yeah. Sure, whatever," Harry replied, glad that his mouth had taken over while his brain went into shock. Sylvester Stallone was a wizard. That explained _so_ much. But going around stealing the guy's name was probably not a good idea in the long run. He didn't want to run into copyright issues down the road, that would be bad. And expensive. Time for a name change, it seemed.

Oh! Oh, _yes!_ Next time, Harry would go with 'Bond. James Bond'.

Yes. That was definitely good. And the guy was from muggle fiction so there was _no way_ any wizards would know of him. Therefore, no claims of copyright infringement.  
Perfect. God, he was so smart.

"No wonder you know barely anything about british wizarding culture. But don't worry, Stallone. I can help you with that." Malfoy seemed quite smug as he said that.

"That would be great, thank you." Harry replied absentmindedly, his mind still occupied with the fact that _Sylvester Stallone_ was a wizard.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a very cluttered office, in the topmost tower of an old castle in the middle of the scottish highlands, there was an old man sitting at a very imposing desk.

It was honestly a very beautiful desk, made of mahogany with dark red leather inlets along the sides. The legs were beautifully carved to look like phoenixes, spreading their wings around each corner to support the tabletop. It went very well with the almost throne-like chair behind it, just as finely carved as the desk and with very comfortable looking leather padding. Anyone who'd sit down in the chair would likely give the impression of being some sort of holy, godlike being, mostly due to the fact that the whole setup was cleverly placed just in front of a window which would illuminate the person from behind. Well, provided it was about noon, but one couldn't have everything.

The previously mentioned old man currently occupying said chair was in the process of braiding his ridiculously long, white beard. It was a nervous habit he had picked up in his old age. And nervous, he was.

The strange contraptions cluttering every possible surface surrounding him were going at previously unprecedented speeds. Some were whistling angrily, some puffing out clouds of silver steam, and none seemed to have any actual purpose. One was slowly melting onto his prized bonsai cabbages, he noted absently.

Looks can be deceiving, though, as the old man knew, and in this case they very much were. All these funny little contraptions existed for one purpose and one purpose _only:_

To keep Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore up to date on one Harry James Potter.

Albus Brian Percival Wulfric Dumbledore was much better known as Headmaster Dumbledore, which was honestly fine with him because keeping track of all his middle names got increasingly more difficult the older he got. He didn't think he could conceivably correct anyone on the proper order of said middle names because, well, there were a lot of them and he really wasn't sure if those were even all of them in the first place. They were the ones he could vaguely remember, at least.

Anyways, Albus Wolverine Percival Brian Dumbledore was just a tad worried.

He was sure that there was a user's manual for all his machines around here somewhere. And therein, precisely, lay the problem.

He could not for the life of him remember, where he'd put it. Unfortunately, neither could he remember what any of the trinkets' outputs even meant. Until a few days ago, he hadn't even remembered that he had been the one who put them there in the first place and what they were even for. He had just assumed it had been a particularly clever interior design decision, as they all looked quite fetching, whirring and whirling and puffing out colorful smoke. And melting, he supposed. Though he was pretty sure that wasn't actually _meant_ to happen.

Professor Minerva McGonagall, a very severe and extremely scottish witch, had stormed into his office some days ago and just started hissing at him, like some kind of cat. The Acceptance Letters were in the process of being sent out, he cleverly deduced from the fact that Minerval was waving one of them in his face angrily, repeatedly stabbing her bony fingers at the address that had appeared on it.  
He really didn't want to mentally repeat any of that particular conversation, as there had been many expletives, lots of 'I-told-you-so's and a very heavy scottish accent involved. He didn't believe he could really do it justice in his internal monologue. He had never been very good at doing impressions of accents.

The gist of their conversation was that, somehow, he had managed to forget that he'd placed those devices to monitor Privet Drive, in case Minerva's assessment of its' residents would prove to be true. He didn't think it would, as the Dursleys were Harry's family and, obviously, families always loved each other. Duh.

But on the off chance it was true and, even worse, someone actually found out he'd forgot to check up on the Saviour of the Wizarding World, he would lose a lot of respect. It was bad enough already that Minerva had since refused to take on any of his boring paperwork.

Albus Prongs Wulfric Brian Dumbledore strongly suspected that his lapse in memory must have been a most evil and malicious plan to rob him of his credibility, orchestrated by some Dark Lord. Probably Voldemort. If he remembered correctly, Gellert was still locked up in his own prison.

Apropos Gellert.

He should really pay his ex-boyfriend a visit sometime soon. He hadn't been visiting Nurmengard for a good taunting session in a while.

* * *

Overall, Harry surmised, his visit to Madam Malkin's had been a success. Not only had Draco Malfoy turned out to be a veritable treasure trove of information on practically any and all topics even remotely wizard related, Harry had also taken the opportunity to not only buy his school robes, but also an entire wardrobe on top of it. It wasn't like he was gonna run around in rags for the rest of his life, thank you very much. Not when he had an entire cavern full of gold coins to his name.

Being rich felt great, now he understood why rich people were so obsessed with gaining more money than they already had; It was a rush. Like taking drugs. Well, he never actually tried any drugs but the books in the library he used to camp out in to escape his pig cousin had described many effects of drugs in great detail, so he considered his former statement an educated guess.

After saying goodbye to Malfoy, who'd been carted off by a bigger and slightly more imposing version of himself (Harry suspected either cloning or mitosis), he had waited around a good twenty minutes for a quite harried Hagrid to arrive. The way the guy swayed on the spot had Harry thinking that Hagrid's earlier statement of heading for a 'quick pick-me-up' had been a gross understatement.

" 'Appeh birth'ay, 'arreh," had been slurred at him, while Hagrid shoved a giant owl cage, occupied by a beautiful snowy owl, into Harry's hands, almost toppling him over in the process.

" 's yer presen' fer turnin' ehlevhn, 'arry," Hagrid helpfully supplied when Harry just sort of stared at the clearly drunk giant.

"Thank you, Hagrid," Harry finally managed to say after he got a hold of himself. Getting an actual, real present for the first time in his short life had come as quite the surprise. He wasn't used to kindness. It made him uncomfortable because he didn't know how to deal with it. Nevertheless, the gesture was appreciated.

Originally, Harry had wanted a pet snake. After his discovery of being able to communicate with snakes, an event which had, to Harry's delight, included a panicked Dudley locked into a reptile enclosure at the London zoo, he had developed an obsession with them. Thanks to Hagrid's drunken generosity he was now the owner of an owl he would name at a later date, instead.

Still, taking a teensy look into one of the many pet stores around the alley wouldn't hurt. Just to take a look, of course. He would just have to come back later that week, since he'd be staying at the Leaky Cauldron until September 1st, anyways. That was mostly a result of his appointment with the goblins of Gringotts a few days down the road and a substantial amount of begging, reassuring and flat out lying to Hagrid on his part. Oh well, the ends justify the means, as they say. There was absolutely no way in hell he'd ever willingly go back to the Dursleys.

Hagrid had then dragged him to a variety of different shops to get the rest of his Hogwarts supplies. He was now the proud owner of a featherlight trunk with a secret compartment. Not that he needed one of those, because he didn't actually have anything particularly secret to put into it, he just wanted one because secret compartments were cool as hell.

At _Flourish and Blotts_ , he had gotten his school books and approximately a metric fucktonne of other, extracurricular, books. Pretty much anything that sounded even remotely interesting. The clerk had taken one look at the precariously swaying stack of books with legs and between giggles had asked if Harry were headed for Ravenclaw. To which Harry replied, that no, he was in fact headed for Ollivander's next. Which, for some odd reason, had sent the store clerk into another violent fit of giggles.

Harry entered the dilapidated and quite shady looking wand shop called Ollivanders, while Hagrid announced that he'd be waiting outside. As soon as Harry was through the door, he understood why Hagrid didn't want to enter with him.

A thick layer of dust coated every surface and Harry had to suppress the urge to sneeze. The store seemed deserted and eerily quiet. It was hard to believe that only a rickety glass door was shielding the inside of the shop from the incredible noise level of Diagon Alley. Stepping in felt like entering a different dimension.


End file.
